The sound of silence

The Sound of Silence

I never said good morning. Why bother? It was just me at home.

I knew it the moment I shut my bedroom door.

The silence was wrong.

Not quiet — wrong. Too thick. Too padded. Like someone had wrapped the house in cotton and swallowed all the ordinary noise. No music drifting from my sister Arietta’s room. No half-sung lyrics, no hairbrush thudding against the counter, no dramatic sighs about nothing in particular. Just me.

And my own voice.

Thin. Off-key. Trying to cut through the invisible ache of being ghosted.

“They ditched me,” I muttered, slamming my closet door harder than necessary. The bang ricocheted down the hallway and came back smaller, embarrassed. “I would’ve set my alarm if Mom and Dad had just—”

I stopped.

Footsteps.

Or the memory of them.

In the mornings, I hear everything. The pipes adjusting in the walls. The hum inside the vents. The refrigerator’s electric whisper. Maybe it’s a blind thing. When you don’t see the world, silence doesn’t mean nothing — it means everything is holding its breath.

There it was again.

A shift in the air.

A presence.

That sitting-on-the-ceiling-above-me feeling. The one that makes your neck prickle and your skin tighten. I stood on my tiptoes without thinking, like height would sharpen my hearing. Cold slid down my spine like iced sweat.

Creeping downstairs.

Watching.

Waiting.

My stomach growled so loudly I startled myself.

“Okay,” I said into the quiet. “That’s just hunger.”

My voice sounded too loud. Too human.

“Okay,” I repeated, softer. “No one’s on the stairs.”

Then, because silence likes to argue, I added, “Yet.”

I needed proof I existed. Needed to push sound into the air so the air would push back.

I followed the familiar path to the kitchen, counting steps out of habit. The fridge hummed — steady, reliable. I pressed the smooth screen and opened it, letting cold air spill against my arms.

Last of the fish. Mushrooms. An onion.

I set everything on the counter and started chopping. The knife struck wood in a steady rhythm.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I hit harder than I needed to.

Knock. Knock.

Control lives in rhythm.

The onion stung my fingers. Mushrooms split beneath the blade. I focused on texture — slick fish, papery skin, damp stems. Real things. Present things.

Oil and butter met heat in my favorite pan.

Crackle.

Pop.

Sizzle.

That sound should have felt comforting. Instead, every snap of oil made my head whip toward it. My long neck strained; my shoulders locked. My breath shortened until I was nearly panting.

I found myself whispering a prayer to the God I’d sworn off years ago.

Please let me just be dramatic.

Breathe, my wiser mind said.

I inhaled slowly.

Garlic. Butter. Earthy mushroom. The sharp sweetness of onion softening.

Smell anchors memory. Sound fractures it.

My shoulders dropped an inch.

Finish what you started.

What had I started?

The thought slipped through my fingers like water.

A soft thud upstairs.

I froze.

The pan continued to sizzle. My heartbeat thudded louder.

That wasn’t the house settling.

Was it?

Another sound — faint, almost playful.

Laughter.

Outside?

Front door? Back?

Or upstairs?

The silence shifted. It wasn’t empty anymore. It felt occupied.

I turned off the stove.

The absence of sizzling was worse.

Silence rushed in like water filling a sink.

I wiped my hands on a towel and walked toward the front door. Each step echoed louder than it should have. The lock clicked when I turned it — a sharp, metallic certainty.

I opened the door.

Cool morning air brushed my face.

“Reine?”

My breath caught.

“Uncle… Kyran?” My voice broke. “I— you’re alive?”

The word alive tasted strange.

He laughed softly. The sound was lower than I remembered, but warm. Familiar. Solid.

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.

The cold that had been haunting the ceiling wasn’t up there anymore.

It was in my arms.

But it wasn’t empty cold.

It was real.

He smelled like outside — wind and something metallic, like rain on pavement. His jacket was rough under my palms. His chest rose and fell. I pressed my ear against him just to hear it.

A heartbeat.

“You going to let me in?” he teased gently.

I swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry.”

I led him inside, suddenly embarrassed by the silence. Like the house had been caught misbehaving.

“I was making stir-fry,” I said quickly. “Fish. It’s… aggressive.”

He chuckled.

There it was again — that sound. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it. Kyran’s laughter always carried. Even when he tried to hold it in, it escaped.

I moved back toward the kitchen, reaching automatically for a plate.

But halfway there, I stopped.

Someone was calling my name.

“Reine.”

Soft.

Upstairs.

Not Kyran. He was behind me. I could hear his boots shifting on the tile.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“Hear what?”

There it was again.

“Reine.”

Clearer this time.

My pulse roared in my ears. “There’s someone upstairs.”

Kyran went still. I felt it in the air — that tightening before movement.

“Mom and Dad aren’t supposed to be home,” I whispered.

The silence pressed down again. Heavy. Intentional.

Kyran stepped past me. I heard his foot hit the first stair.

Creak.

The old wood groaned under his weight.

“Stay here,” he said quietly.

Every instinct in my body rebelled.

“No.”

Another creak. Another step.

The house felt taller somehow. Deeper.

The air shifted above us.

Then—

Music.

Faint at first.

Then swelling.

Arietta’s voice.

Off-key. Dramatic. Singing like she always does when she thinks no one’s listening.

I sagged against the counter, dizzy with relief.

“She’s home,” I breathed.

Kyran stopped halfway up the stairs. “That’s your sister?”

“Yes.”

The music grew louder. A door opened upstairs. Something clattered to the floor.

“Reine?” Arietta called. “Why is the stove off?”

I laughed — a shaky, almost hysterical sound.

Because the silence wasn’t empty.

It was waiting.

Waiting for sound to return.

Kyran descended the stairs slowly.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I think,” I said carefully, “the sound of silence isn’t actually silence.”

He tilted his head. “What is it then?”

“It’s everything you’re afraid to hear.”

Upstairs, Arietta resumed singing.

In the kitchen, the fridge hummed. The pipes ticked. Kyran’s jacket rustled when he shifted his weight.

The house was alive again.

And so was I.

But I would never trust silence the same way.

Because now I knew —

Silence has a sound.